


I Want To Taste You Again (Like A Secret Or A Sin)

by ShadowsLament



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-10 12:07:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowsLament/pseuds/ShadowsLament
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He could deal with the quiet, the cold, but now that Derek had tasted his mate, he wasn’t going to live without him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’m new to the fandom (hello!) and this is my first attempt at writing this pairing. I guess you could call it my testing the waters fic. Having not caught up with season two, it necessarily takes place after the last ep. of season one, and...Well, it is what it is, and I’m just going to post it because it is _ridiculous_ , the time I’ve spent fiddling with the thing and fretting.
> 
> Title taken from Matthew Perryman Jones’ “Only You,” but the song that was (and will likely continue to be) crucial to the writing of it was actually Kenny Chesney’s “Come Over.”

When his grief had been fresh, a wound so deep and jagged he hadn’t been able to stitch it together, he had chosen silence. Had let it build in his chest: a dam constructed to contain the memories that breathed there, waiting to finish the job, to tear him apart more thoroughly than tooth or claw. If it left him cold, colder than the currents of air that broke around his body, wicking away the sweat that forged trails across his skin, clearing his head as he ran at night, he’d learned to deal with it. He could live with the quiet; was willing to live with the cold; would rather that than open his mouth, the words articulated in his thoughts falling apart, changing shape when he tried to force them out.

Even when Kate had tortured him, manacles grating, scraping bone, her taunts like an earthquake’s residual tremors, he’d tried to swallow the pain, to maintain his hold on silence. When he’d lost it, spitting out words like blood, his lips caught between a snarl and a shiver, he had recognized his voice by the threat in it: the only language he was fluent in anymore.

Now, with questions crouched in the space between him and Scott, with things he needed to say to all of them piling up around him, he couldn’t even manage that. Which left him with one other, familiar option on the table: Stepping around Peter’s body, Derek walked away.

“Really? Are you--“ The note of exasperation in Stiles’ aborted question pulled Derek up short. Stumbling forward, Stiles slid on pine needles, choked on a startled gasp. Shoving white-knuckled fists into his jacket pockets, Derek shook off his hesitation. “Okay. You’re taking this brooding, I’m-the-Alpha-now thing seriously. Good. That’s...good? I don’t know. Jury’s still out. But what about--“

“Go home.”

Stiles jogged up and paced beside him. “That had a frankly suspicious whiff of request about it.”

Exhaustion settled on Derek’s shoulders, heavier than the thick leather there; it was the only excuse he had for telling the truth. “I’m tired.”

“Come on, Derek, that’s not--Wait. Tired? Is that, like, a thing? Because requires-more-sleep is _not_ in the literature about Alphas.”

“Stiles.”

“What?”

Derek slanted a narrow-eyed glare at Stiles, who studiously ignored it in favor of tugging at his cuff, unbuttoning and buttoning it, the thick throb of the pulse beating at Stiles’ wrist bared in brief, teasing flashes. “Go. Home.”

Stiles’ head came up. “If the lack of dramatically swelling music as you made your little pronouncement didn’t tip you off, this isn’t a movie.” Lifting a finger, he added, “Though I’ll grant you, it _is_ getting darker out. In a very fade to black type way. But still: not a movie. We have questions. And you let me get that entire, only slightly relevant rant out without growling, which is unsettling, and probably means you’re creating a bulleted list of ways to maim Stiles in twenty seconds or less in your head. I’m just going to--” Twirling his finger in the air, Stiles reversed direction. “Submit them in writing. Later.”

Relenting, Derek stopped and turned to Stiles. “One. Make it count.”

Agreeing to the terms with a distracted nod, Stiles worried his lip, tugging at the skin until resolve firmed the line of his mouth. He looked at Derek; solemn brown eyes touched on the dirt-streaked shirt, the slice in his jacket over his biceps, stained dark with dried blood, before lifting to hold Derek’s own. “Are you going to be okay?”

Surprise coursed through Derek like electricity: sharp jolts that manifested in his hands shaking, fingers curling into his palms to defend against it. _No_. The word scraped at his throat; muscles shifting and straining, trying to release the sound and failing. _I don’t think I am_.

“I’m still not,” Stiles murmured, “haven’t been since my--So maybe all of this, right - everything you probably know now, what you _are_ now - is too much?” Derek took a tentative step forward and hoped Stiles saw it for the answer it was. “I know what that’s like. Trust me. So you don’t have to--” Sincerity burned like a struck match in Stiles’ eyes as Derek took another step, trying to define his scent, to breathe through the pleasure that unfurled in his stomach when he realized it lacked the bitter taint of fear. “Because you’re not alone.” Stiles’ moved with him, stepping back until the thick trunk of a Coulter pine halted his progress. “Even if everything inside of you says otherwise.” Closing the gap, bark scored Derek’s hand where he braced it above Stiles’ head. Blinking up at him, Stiles stuttered, “Th-that’s all. That’s it. What I wanted to say.”

 _No, don’t stop_. Derek pressed forward. _Keep talking_. Stiles took his weight without resistance, making room when Derek dropped his head, settled into the cradle where neck met shoulder. _Because you’re right_.

“Derek?”

 _It is_. Derek drew his nose along Stiles’ jaw; up the slope of his cheek. _Too much_. Lingered at his temple. _But why do you care?_ Brushed across his brow. _Why are you letting me this close?_ Stilled when he felt a pull on his jacket. _Stiles?_ Fisting the leather, Stiles twisted it tightly before his palm flattened to urge Derek impossibly closer. _I need--_ Derek’s lashes fluttered shut. “You.”

Leaning in, Derek took Stiles’ bottom lip between his teeth. _Let me_. Nipped the slick curve. _Just this once_. Laved the flushed stretch of skin to soothe the sting. _Be with me_. Shivered as Stiles’ hands slid up his back, his neck, fingers sinking into his hair. _Kiss me_. Swallowed the keening whimper that rose to answer Stiles’ muffled hum, vibrating against his chest, as Stiles slanted his head, his mouth parting, tongue licking along the seam of Derek’s lips.

Wrapping an arm around Stiles’ back, fingers splayed over his ribs, Derek hauled him close, pinning Stiles against his body as he deepened the kiss; his tongue stealing into the warmth of Stiles’ mouth, imprinting the taste of him, the tug of fingers buried in his hair, onto memory.

Ghosting his fingertips up Stiles’ throat, Derek cupped his jaw, tracked his thumb across the line of Stiles’ cheekbone. His scent coiled around Derek, overwhelming the rich soil and pungent pine with the heady spice of Stiles’ arousal. With the sharp tang of his regret.

Jerking back, Derek stumbled as he took a hasty step away, shaking his head.

“Derek?” Stiles licked his lips, his chest rising on a ragged inhale as he watched Derek’s retreat, caution dousing the spark that lit the ring of his irises. “That was--”

 _Don’t_. Derek choked on the howl that seized his lungs, tightened his chest. _Don’t tell me that was a mistake_. He turned away from the confusion that crowded in the pinch bisecting Stiles’ brow, moving even as Stiles pushed away from the tree, lengthening his strides as twigs snapped and scattered behind him, Stiles’ harsh pants punctuating the slap of his feet on uneven ground.

“What the hell just--” Stiles stopped, his heartbeat leveling, fading as Derek loped into the thick of the forest. “Derek!”

Gritting his teeth, Derek ran until the questions and demands lingering on his tongue submitted, until the weight of his silence dragged him down, dropped him to his knees.


	2. Chapter 2

Resting on his haunches, defying gravity and the thick, suffocating beat of his heart by not assuming the fetal position, Stiles looked through his lashes at his borrowed tie, snagged on a thicket of burrs. “Oh, come on.” Yanking at the strip of cloth, he ground his teeth as it tore, and sat heavily, pulling air in through his nose. Stripping it over his head, he tossed the tie aside, dove for it before it landed on the dirt and desiccated leaves carpeting the forest floor. “How do you solve the problem of finding an appropriate father’s day present?” He wove the material through his fingers. “Destroy the man’s tie.” And pulled tight. The pressure didn’t come close to erasing the memory of cool black hair against his fingertips, clutched in the fold of his knuckles. “Why did you have to kiss him? He didn’t--”

“Stiles?”

Closing his eyes, Stiles counted to three before surging to his feet. Preempting the question that rounded Scott’s mouth, he said, “Let me guess: Jackson’s boxer-briefs are in a bunch, and he’s threatening to leave my ass here if I don’t get said ass back to his car. In the next five seconds.”

“No.” Scott stepped closer, his head cocked to the side, gaze roaming from the flush that burned Stiles’ cheeks to the mangled tie, spiraling down from his hand to trail in the dirt. “I mean, yes. But--What happened?”

“We have _got_ to work on your recall. Come up with some mnemonic devices or something.” Striding past Scott, Stiles glanced over his shoulder, the arch of his eyebrow sharpening until Scott got the hint and started walking. “What’s the last thing you remember? You know what, never mind. I’ll start from the beginning. Once upon a time, Stiles escorted a fair maiden to--“ 

“With Derek,” Scott clarified, leaning in. “Did he shove you against a tree or something?”

Scott’s hand snapped out, latching onto Stiles’ collar as his toe failed to clear an exposed root and he pitched forward. Shrugging out of Scott’s grip, Stiles dusted dry palms down his shirt. “This forest’s cleaning service sucks. A simple reference check would--“

“I can smell him on you.”

“You can smell…Derek? On me?” Stiles resisted the urge to bring his hand up, to draw his nose along his skin, searching for a variation in his scent, hoping Derek had left something besides Stiles behind when he took off. “Come to think of it,” he nodded, “there may have been a tree involved.” Absently rubbing a tight circle over his chest, Stiles pushed away the thought of Derek’s body caging his, his warm weight pressing Stiles into the rough, unyielding bark at his back. “I’m, ah, fairly certain he’s trying to replace discus with the Stilinski-toss at the next Olympics, which, considering he’s got it down to a science, shouldn’t be allowed. Do you think they’d listen to the equipment? Because I would so tell them the game’s rigged. And--What?”

“I don’t know.” Scott hitched a shoulder up. “It’s just--Nothing happened? Besides the normal shove-and-snarl act?”

“Nothing,” Stiles assured him, the lie twisting his stomach. “Can we just,” he gestured to the trail, “so I can sneak this tie in the house before dad gets home?”

“There’s a rip--”

“I know.”

“And it kind of looks like it--”

“I _know_.”

“Alright.”

“Excellent.” Stiles stalked down the path; Scott fell into step next to him. “On the subject of sneaking. Why aren’t you furtively climbing through Allison’s bedroom window right now?”

Frowning, Scott kicked a pine cone to the side. “I think...maybe she needs some time? Or maybe--”

“Her father scares the shit out of you.”

“Have you seen him? With the,” Scott wagged a finger at his mouth, “Who smiles like that? All teeth and--”

“Werewolves,” Stiles interjected. “When they deign to smile. Which, your anomalous self aside, isn’t all that often. And hyenas. Don’t get me started on--”

“She said she loved me. Allison.”

“Yeah? Dude.” Stiles grinned; if the corner of his lips didn’t push the sentiment into his eyes, Scott didn’t notice. “That’s good! That’s great, right?”

“Yeah, except--”

“Holy fuck, McCall,” Jackson interrupted when they stepped into the clearing, drumming his fingers on the roof of his car, “how long could it possibly take to pry this barnacle off Hale’s back?”

“Barnacle,” Stiles echoed. “That’s what you’re going with?”

Jackson opened his mouth, shrugged, and slid into the driver’s seat.

“The witty retort is a lost art. I should maybe teach some classes; bring it back.” Cuffing Scott’s shoulder, Stiles walked backwards to the car, wincing as Jackson laid on the horn. “Give me at least five, preferably eight hours of sleep before you go climbing into the next pot of boiling water--” 

“Stilinski!” 

“For the love of--“ Stiles yanked on the door handle. “I’m getting in.” Collapsed into the seat. “You’re worse than a horny trick waiting on a hooker.” And squirmed under the incredulous look Jackson cut his way as he threw the car in reverse. “I maybe didn’t think that one through.” Sighing, Stiles let his head fall back, his eyes slip shut. “I will slap that smirk off your face, Jackson, so help me God.”

“Yeah, well, divine intervention is exactly what you’d need to make good on that threat.”

Straightening out of his slouch, Stiles blinked. “That wasn’t bad. That was almost a Stiles worthy rejoinder. There’s hope for you yet, buddy.”

Jackson snorted. “Whatever.”

“And there you go: taking that hope, beating it against a rock until it’s bloody.”

“Stilisnki.”

“Shut up?”

Jerking his chin down, Jackson shed the question mark: “Shut up.”

“Okay,” Stiles agreed. “But only because I asked nicely.” 

Turning away from the lines of aggravation carving shadows into Jackson’s profile, Stiles watched the blur of trees outside his window, bare branches thrown into compromising positions as Jackson sped faster, tires turning up dust like mist in some throwback B-movie. Probably the same one he had accused Derek of starring in. Before Stiles had kissed him. Before Derek had backed away, shaking his head, denying the kiss before Stiles had been able to accept that it was even happening. Before--

“Stilinski.” Jackson snapped his fingers in front of Stiles’ face. “Get out of my car.”

“What? Why? I wasn’t even talk--”

“You’re home,” he said, pointing up the driveway. “Get out.”

“Oh. Right.” Cracking the door open, Stiles slid out, hesitated. He leaned down. “One question: You have a thing for my name? Because you say it, like, all the time. I’m thinking even in your drea--Fuu _uuck_!” Stiles scrambled back as the Porsche squealed away from the curb. He held up a hand, extending his middle finger. “Thanks for the ride!”

Exchanging the tie for the keys in his pocket, Stiles trudged up the drive and let himself into the house. He took the stairs two at a time, silence moving in like waves on the shore; the threat of drowning all too real the nearer it crept, growing stronger as he closed the distance on his empty bedroom. 

Kicking the door shut to hear it slam, Stiles moved to his bed and sank down, toeing his shoes off. Hanging his head, he smothered the sob that had been lodged in his throat since Scott found him, and lifted his hand, dragging his thumb along the curve of his bottom lip. Falling back on the mattress, sheets cold against his forearm and palm as he gathered them in his fist, Stiles gave in, let himself remember before he had to pretend to forget.

Like the surprise that widened Derek’s eyes when Stiles asked his one question; it had been genuine, revealing more than Derek probably meant to, and made something clench in Stiles chest. The spike of pain that flared, crimson dotting Derek’s irises like poppies in a field, when Stiles had tripped up, almost mentioned his mom, was like a fist to the stomach; it was all Stiles could do to breath as the color bloomed and spread as he rambled on, insisting Derek wasn’t alone. Like a fool. An idiot who didn’t know his place even if it seemed like there were words crowding behind the barrier of Derek’s compressed lips; like there was something he wanted Stiles to hear and couldn’t say as he backed him against that tree.

Instinct had taken over when Derek leaned in, his stubble a brand burning the sensitive skin at Stiles’ throat as his head came up, scenting Stiles, his breath hot and soft as a whisper. Stiles’ lips were on Derek’s before he could think better of it, his tongue taking, tasting; his hands shaking, fingers burying in Derek’s hair. 

“Stupid.” Stiles turned his face, his body reacting to the memory of Derek’s mouth, warm and wet when Stiles stole in. “So stupid.” He bit his lip. “Just do it. G-get him out of your system.” Drawing his hand down, Stiles slipped the button of his pants loose, pulled at the zipper. Slid his fingers beneath the band of his boxers to curl around his cock. “Oh.” He tightened his grip; his hips jerked up, a shallow thrust that shortened his breath. “ _Oh_.” Slicking his thumb with pre-come, Stiles set an easy rhythm: pumping his hand down slowly, twisting his wrist at the base, waiting a beat to squeeze tighter, holding off the orgasm that built with every quick upstroke. Imagining Derek’s hand covering his, fingers laced as they worked Stiles together undid him. His back arching off the bed, Stiles bit his pillow, muffling a hoarse shout as he came.

Ignoring the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the name lingering on his tongue, Stiles stared sightlessly up at the ceiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ch. 2 End Note: Comments are always welcome and appreciated! Thanks to everyone who has continued to read this story!


	3. Chapter 3

Turning his collar up against the rainwater cutting cold paths down his neck, soaking the thin cotton at his nape, Derek pursed his lips and stopped walking. “What?”

Scott squelched though the mud, jogging to close the brief distance he’d kept between them, and pulled up in front of Derek. “I have to ask you something,” he said, his eyes traveling over Derek’s drenched shirt, the wet denim plastered to his thighs. “Wait. Have you been out here all night?”

“That’s your question? Yes.” Derek stepped around Scott and trudged up the hill, the ash-stained outline of his former home stark against the storm-pale sky. He vaulted up the porch steps; the shadow at his heels trailed close behind, undeterred by Derek’s stiff spine, his shuttered expression. “Why are you still following me?”

“What did you do to Stiles?” Scott blurted out.

The timber propping up the porch overhang cracked under Derek’s hand. “What did he say?”

“Uh.” Scott’s tread hesitated on the bottom step. “That you were going to cheat at the Olympics?” 

Frowning, Derek looked over his shoulder. “What?”

Scott paced, raked a hand through his hair, his chest rising on a deep breath he let out in a rush: “He was going on about the Stilinski-toss and talking equipment and _science_ and he smelled like you and longing and sadness and what did you do to my best friend, Derek?”

“I-” _became one more regret for him to live with_ “-didn’t do anything,” Derek lied. “Are we don--”

“Bullshit.” Scott’s eyes widened, but he didn’t back down when Derek went still, the arch of his eyebrow speaking for his silence; the warning as sharp as a blade. “He was sitting on the ground, mauling his tie, and he looked...Did you turn him down?”

“Did I--You think Stiles came on to me?” Water chased down Scott’s temple, displaced from his hair by the boy’s earnest nod; Derek narrowed his focus to that slick streak and forced the truth out through gritted teeth. “He can’t stand me.” 

“Maybe,” Scott conceded. “ _Before_. When we thought you were a murderer.”

Tension a wire strung tight between his shoulder blades, Derek argued, “Nothing’s changed.”

“Okay. Did you not hear me when I said longing?” Urgency propelled Scott up a step. “Stiles reeked of it, dude. You were the only one out there with him, so I guess that means...he wants you. That he, like, _likes_ you.” Scott grabbed Derek’s sleeve before he could move away. Derek’s dark glare landed on Scott’s hand, slid up to his face, but he held on. “Something happened last night and you’re...resisting. If you don’t want him, that’s--”

“Stop.” It was as close to a plea as Derek’s pride would allow. “You don’t know--”

“I do, actually. I think.” Scott relaxed his restraining grip. “Kind of.” He squeezed Derek’s arm and let go, his hand swinging back to his side, thumb hooking in his pocket. “You should talk to him, Derek. Whatever you think happened,” Scott said, shaking his head, “you’re wrong.” 

_What the hell is that supposed to mean?_ Derek bit his tongue as Scott trotted down the steps and retraced his footprints into the woods. When Scott vanished, lost to the trees and low hanging fog, Derek crossed the porch. He stepped over the threshold, catching the door with his toe and kicking it shut. The scrape of wood shoving into the frame was made mute by Scott’s words, playing like a melody Derek couldn’t shake. 

_He wants you._

Derek closed his eyes and shrugged out of his jacket, Stiles’ pale skin against the black leather a beacon in the enforced dark as he thought of long fingers sinking beneath it, pushing the heavy weight off Derek’s shoulders, down his arms, circling Derek’s wrists as the jacket fell to the floor. 

_Longing._

He tugged the hem of his sodden shirt up, the fabric clinging to his skin as he peeled it off. His pulse stuttered and sped, imagining it was Stiles’ tongue licking a leisurely line up his stomach, laving his nipple and dipping into the well between Derek’s collarbones, leaving a field of goosebumps in its wake.

_Stiles reeked of it._

Derek dropped his hand to his jeans and jerked the waistband to the side, the buttons on his fly popping loose, one after another. His breath came in harsh pants; staccato bursts of sound, deafening in the quiet room. He leaned back against the door, worked the drying denim down his thighs, the image of Stiles on his knees--

_Fuck._

Driving his fist into the door, Derek straightened and stepped out of his jeans, stalked over to the bag he had stashed in the corner. He knelt and reached for the zipper, his fingers fumbling on the slim tab of metal, yanking it open until the teeth caught the coarse grain of the bag and stuck. Derek looked at his hand, trembling where it clutched the bag, and heaved up to his feet. He hurled the duffel across the room, watched it smack against the fireplace, his clothes spilling out, covering the ground like black soot.

He sank down, slivers of wood from the rough floorboards clawing his bare legs as he stretched out, braced against the wall.

Pretending Stiles was with him, that he’d want his hands on Derek’s body if he were was one thing, but the regret in his scent as Derek kissed him owed nothing to Derek’s imagination. He’d spent enough time with the bitter taste of it coating his tongue to know it was real. Shortly after three that morning the sky had splintered, relentless rain driving down on him where he lay, washing off dried blood and the sap embedded in the lines of his hand, and Derek understood: he couldn’t outrun the scent, or the ache that tore through his gut like a bullet, burying deep in the muscle. Just like he couldn’t lose Stiles’ unknowing claim on him. 

_Whatever you think happened, you’re wrong._

Derek grit his teeth and stood, determined to find out if Scott, for once, knew what he was talking about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was thinking...I might write a drabble from Scott's POV that would account for the time between Stiles leaving with Jackson and Scott approaching Derek and post it on [my Tumblr](http://shadowslament.tumblr.com/). Interested? (Also, please feel free to swing by there and prod me for updates or leave prompts or...just say hello.)

**Author's Note:**

> Ch. 1 End Note: If this is okay - okay? I mean, if you liked it enough to want more - I’m thinking a couple of additional chapters are in order.


End file.
